


2 AM and I Want You

by captainsourwolf



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Angst, F/M, Guilt, Infidelity, M/M, Mentions of Smut, Shame, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24118654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainsourwolf/pseuds/captainsourwolf
Summary: The rum sitting in his cabinet when he gets home from his honeymoon doesn’t go down as smoothly as he’d hoped it would. In fact, it burns the entire way down his throat and settles heavy and warm in his belly as he climbs into the tub and sprawls out, arms and legs hanging loose over the sides. At least the porcelain underneath him is cool to the touch.For the Good Mythical Isolation prompt "one messages/calls the other at 2 am"
Relationships: Christy Neal/Link Neal, Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71
Collections: Good Mythical Self-Isolation





	2 AM and I Want You

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is NOT how Link's rum-in-the-bathtub story went down. It was a cute, silly story and this is a FICTIONAL story INSPIRED by that one.
> 
> Huge thanks to my friiiiiiend @secondhand-watermelon over on tumblr. She listened to me bitch and whine about this all weekend and then beta-ed it for me because she's awesome and I love her.

The rum sitting in his cabinet when he gets home from his honeymoon doesn’t go down as smoothly as he’d hoped it would. In fact, it burns the entire way down his throat and settles heavy and warm in his belly as he climbs into the tub and sprawls out, arms and legs hanging loose over the sides. At least the porcelain underneath him is cool to the touch. 

Link lazily takes another drink, not caring that some of it dribbles out and over his chin, down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. It’s a worn-thin NC State tee that he changed into after a late shower, just something soft and comforting to wear; he didn’t realize who it belonged to until he was uncapping the bottle to pour the first drink and he smelled an all-too-familiar cologne. He thinks maybe that’s part of what inspired him to lose the glass and just drink straight from the bottle. That scent, the softness of the shirt, the memory of how it ended up in his drawer in the first place. 

With a heavy sigh, he slips further into the tub, the top of his head sinking below the edge. He drags both arms in, careful not to drop the bottle, and drapes one over his stomach while keeping a steady hold on the rum with the other. The shirt drags up his back and bunches uncomfortably at his armpits. Serves him right, being uncomfortable; it’s what he deserves. Probably more.

He can hear Christy— _his new wife_ —banging around in the bedroom down the hall, probably unpacking the last of their things. It’s late. It was already late when he stumbled into the bathroom an hour ago and decided laying in the tub drinking to excess was a good idea instead of enjoying his first night home as a married man. The honeymoon was good--great even--and he enjoyed it a lot. He felt like he was in a bubble, a haze, the entire time they were gone. One that thankfully wasn’t broken _during_ the trip, but instead when they arrived home that afternoon and Link had a few missed calls that he blatantly ignored for the rest of the day.

But now, nearing two a.m. according to the phone he pulls out of his pocket, he can’t ignore it anymore. He’s past drunk, he’s uncomfortable, his head hurts, and his phone won’t stop reminding him that he has several missed calls and a few voicemails waiting for him. Groaning, he downs one more swallow of the burning liquid and, feeling less than brave, checks everything.

 _8 missed calls_ and _4 new voicemails_ since they arrived home. 

He clears out the missed calls and listens to each message, the voice on the other end a little rough around the edges. Every message gets progressively sadder; makes his heart pound in his chest and a sweat break out on his forehead, a few tears springing unbidden to his eyes. The final message, _What did I do wrong?_ , has him fumbling with the bottle and bringing it to his lips for another drink. He notices with a frown that it’s almost gone, so instead of crying he finishes his rum and drops the empty bottle onto his stomach.

Drunk and aching all over from lying in the tub, Link considers the phone in his hand. All he has to do is press speed dial 1; even he can manage that in such a state. It wouldn’t be hard. One press and he could settle this once and for all. Stop the tears, the pounding in his chest, the nagging thought in the back of his mind that what if—

 _No_. 

Except there’s a reason he wanted to get drunk in the first place. There’s a reason he felt the need to do something stupid and reckless just hours after returning from a gorgeous honeymoon with his beautiful new _wife_. And before he can stop himself, he’s punching his thumb on speed dial 1 and putting the phone up to his ear again. 

It rings and rings and on the third ring the call is picked up. He holds his breath when he hears the wide awake and soft, “Hello?” and almost hangs up. But he doesn’t. He waits and he waits, listens to Rhett’s breathing on the other end. “Link?”

Link freezes. What does he do? Does he hang up? He’s too drunk for this, too drunk for anything to make sense and not get fucked up even more. 

Instead he finds himself sniffling and muttering into the phone, “Shoulda been you, Rhett.” He needs more rum but he’s out; he finished it already. Dammit, why did he finish it already? 

“Link—“ Rhett’s voice holds a warning. A sad and tired warning, one that’s old and worn around the edges and overstayed its welcome in their lives. 

“We fucked up,” Link whispers and swipes at the hot tears sliding down his temples and into his hair. 

Rhett sighs into the phone. “We did. We shouldn’t have—“

“ _No_ ,” Link cuts him off, waving a hand in the air like Rhett’s there to see him do it. “ _No_ , I mean—we fucked this up. Coulda been me’n’you…”

“Shut up, Link.” Rhett’s voice is sharp, too sharp for the time of night. “Christy’s a great girl. Are you drunk?”

At this Link laughs. _Drunk_. If he only knew. 

“Great girl, yeah, but she’s not—“

“ _Shut. Up_.” Rhett’s getting frustrated now. Link can tell. He knows him better than anyone. He always has and he hopes he always will. “Go get some rest, with your _wife_. We can talk tomorrow.”

Link huffs and kicks at the tub with his heels. “We—we did wha’ we did, and you _ran away_ to Europe.” 

“And _you_ got engaged!” Rhett shouts. “We both hurt each other, Link.”

“And we did it again the day before I got _married_ ,” Link spits back, anger sobering him up just enough to surge into a sitting position, bottle clattering around the tub. He nearly drops the phone but catches it in time and brings it back to his ear to hear Rhett sniffling. 

“Link, we can talk tomorrow. Go to bed.” There’s a fierce, resigned anger coloring Rhett’s voice when he speaks.

Link sighs and drapes his free arm over the side of the tub, fingertips brushing the tiles. “I still think about that day,” he confesses. He drops his head back with a soft thunk, wincing when his vision swims a little. “Made love to my new wife for the first time ever and I couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout _you_.”

Rhett sucks in a sharp breath. Before he can speak, Link keeps going, mind taking him elsewhere and mouth loose with alcohol. 

“The way you _touched me_ , Rhett.” Link rolls his head back and forth despite the nausea it causes. He deserves it, anyway. Every drunken churn of his stomach and every throb of his head, he deserves it all. He earned this when he took his wife to bed for the first time on their wedding night and all he could think about was the ache between his own thighs, the ugly fingertip bruises around his hips that he hoped she wouldn’t see, and the burn of guilt in his chest. 

“D’you remember?” Link murmurs. Rhett stays quiet. “How you touched me?” 

“ _Don’t_.”

Link ignores Rhett’s plea and keeps going, keeps digging himself into a hole. Maybe he can bury himself in it when he’s finished.

“Still got some bruises on my hips and’a ache down there ‘cause of how good you—“

There’s a hitch in Rhett’s breathing and a quiet but emphatic, “Stop, Link.” Link squeezes his eyes shut. Rhett is so _mad_ ; he has every right to be for the way Link treated him. But Link is drunk and he feels guilty, feels like he’s grieving the loss of something he wasn’t even sure was his to begin with. 

“You touched me so good, Rhett.” Link groans, a pang in his chest at the memory of that day. It hurts to think about, but he can’t help it. He can’t help but remember all the details despite trying so hard to forget. Every touch and sound is seared into his mind. “Always knew your hands were bigger’n mine, didn’t know they were so skilled, too. And your _mouth_.”

Rhett falls silent. The only indication he’s still listening is his harsh breathing on the other end. Link imagines he’s red in the face by now, probably pacing his bedroom floor, angry at Link and running a hand over his short hair. Maybe he’s debating hanging up the phone, ending Link’s nonsense, or maybe he’s reluctantly listening and remembering along with Link, too.

A few bedsprings squeak in the background and Link’s breath comes out in one big _whoosh_ at the implications it holds. Is Rhett just sitting, tired of pacing? Or is he lying down, settling in to listen to Link? Is his hand resting behind his head on the pillow or low on his belly, fingers twitching just above the waistband of his pants, eager and hoping for something more? Link closes his eyes and bites his lip to stifle a moan.

“What’re you doin’?” he asks in the hopes that Rhett will answer instead of staying silent. “You thinkin’ about it? I hope so. I want you t’remember it with me, Rhett.” 

Eyes still closed, Link lets his hand fall down to his chest, fingers _tap tap tapping_ a rhythm over his heart as he contemplates his next words. He can recall every minute detail of that day, so it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out what to say next.

“You kissed me.” Link sighs, absently rubbing his thumb in the hollow of his throat. Rhett kissed him there, too, later when things progressed further than they meant to. He remembers it fondly, Rhett kissing him. Grabbing him by the back of the neck in a fit of anger and jealousy and smashing their lips together, Link tried to protest at first— _no, we had our fun once, not again_. “You were so mad and jealous. But then it was sweeter, gentler.” 

Link blinks rapidly to clear the tears clinging to his lashes again. He’s not going to cry over this; he won’t cry over Rhett who’s not here, who’s still silent through the phone.

“You undressed me after,” Link pauses, hand sliding down his chest to the hem of his shirt. He thumbs the soft material briefly, thinking about Rhett’s hands slipping underneath instead, big and warm and caressing his skin as he strips Link bare. A shiver raises goosebumps along his arms remembering the feeling as he grazes his fingertips along his own torso. On his stomach, across his ribs, lightly over a nipple, not stopping till he’s flirting with the waistband of his sweats. “Then you touched me, Rhett. You put your hands on my body.”

Burning with shame and guilt, skin flushing hot from his face to his chest, Link sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He’s half-hard just from the teasing and the memories, and it would be so _easy_ to just forget for a moment where he is at and who’s waiting on him down the hall and slip his hand underneath. 

It was easy enough for Rhett to drag his knuckles softly down Link’s sides, for him to kiss and lick and nip his way from Link’s throat to his hips, for him to drop to his knees in front of Link and look up at him with no shame or guilt about what they were doing. So, Link touching himself now would be the easiest thing in the world. Except, _except_ —

“It felt so good, Rhett!” Link gasps, and he’s even more ashamed to find he’s crying again, the unwanted tears rolling down his cheeks in big fat drops and soaking into the shirt collar. He has a _wife_ \--she’s down the hall, she’s waiting for him to join her in their new bed in their new home--and he’s getting aroused in a bathtub thinking about his best friend after drinking an entire bottle of rum.

“I don’t know what I liked better: your hands or your mouth.” His fingers twitch against his skin. He’s itching to get his hand inside his pants. “God, both were enough to drive me crazy. Mouth all over me, like you couldn’t get enough. Hands touchin’ in places I didn’t know could be touched. Even the first time of foolin’ around didn’t compare to this.” He’s vaguely aware he’s babbling now, words getting away from him before he can stop them. 

“Your mouth was so good on my cock, Rhett. And the way you laid me down an’ took your time? Coulda laid there forever, s’long as you kept touching me.”

There’s a hitching sigh followed by the muffled sound of the bedsprings on the other end of the phone and Link sobs. His chest aches, his head is still swimming, and he’s throbbing in his briefs. It wouldn’t take much to slip his hand into his underwear and wrap around his cock, and he considers it for a moment. Another sigh makes his fingers twitch again and the tears flow harder.

“But then you...you made love to me.” Link wipes the tears off his cheeks with the shirt and has to take a breath before he can put the phone back to his ear. “It was—“

Another sob tears its way from his chest and this one _hurts_. He thinks maybe he hears Rhett crying, too. But why would he be? Link is the one that’s guilty. He’s the one that’s flushed bright red, shirt tucked half way up his body, and cock straining and leaking, eager for touch. He’s the newlywed that cheated and still wants more. 

Thinking about the way Rhett took his time, worked him open gently, _kissed him_ , pushed in slowly because he was afraid he’d hurt Link--all of it brings forth a fresh wave of arousal. This time he gives in to the twitching of his fingers and the throbbing between his legs and slips his hand past the waistband of his pants and briefs, then stops just shy of his destination. He moans in desperation, needing the touch of his own hand, but still holding back. 

“I wish you’d say somethin’,” Link groans. “I wanna know if you’re touchin’ yourself. Are you?” His dick gives one heavy throb, and he can’t help it; he circles the head lightly with his index finger, whimpering over how good just that simple motion feels. “I am. I’m touchin’ myself, Rhett. Feels good, too.”

Rhett gasps and moans and Link finally, _finally_ , takes himself in hand and—

A gentle knock on the door and a soft, “Link?” makes him jump and jerk his hand back so fast he knocks his elbow on the side of the tub. He drops the phone in his surprise, cursing when it clatters loudly against the porcelain. “You comin’ to bed soon, honey? Surely by now that rum is gone!” Christy laughs. 

“I-I’ll be out in a minute!” he calls out, waiting impatiently for her footsteps to signal she’s walking away. 

“All right, baby.” Link hears her sigh and sees her shadow under the door move away, then come back. “Is everything okay?” She sounds small, concerned, like suddenly their new marriage is already crumbling around them.

Link lies, “Yeah, I’m fine. Go to bed, I’m comin’.” Finally her footsteps retreat down the hallway and Link is left to scramble around to get the phone back to his ear. He’s grateful to hear Rhett still breathing on the other end. “Rhett?”

But Rhett doesn’t speak. Instead, the line goes dead, the click of being hung up on followed by the dial tone making his pulse race and his heart drop to his stomach. That’s that, then. With an angry cry he tosses the phone to the bottom of the tub and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. What did he expect? For Rhett to listen to him nearly get caught by Christy and then get himself off? 

No, _no_. He’s not dumb. He’s hurt and he’s guilty and even now he finds himself wanting things he can’t have. As he crawls out of the tub with a pounding head and aching back from sitting in there so long, he tries to find the will to leave the bathroom. It takes a couple of minutes of staring at himself in the mirror and splashing water on his red and tear-streaked face, but eventually he turns away, determined not to hide any longer. Still, when he finally forces himself across the room and out the door he’s only thinking about one thing. 

_Shoulda been you_.


End file.
